


The Snow Moon

by DesertPersephone



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Charles The Werewolf King, Fairy Tale Elements, Original Fairy Tale, Werewolf Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertPersephone/pseuds/DesertPersephone
Summary: Every full moon the Wolf King is plagued by intense pain, pain so bad it forces his body to relent and he blacks out.Every full moon his kingdom is ravaged by a creature. A monster. A giant wolf.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Snow Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is literally only here because I Need the italics in the text for emphasis.
> 
> Charles is my newest original character and also my newest werewolf boy and here in follows a transformation for February 2020. Basically the idea is that he was raised by wolves, turned into one and then returned to the human world, but has no idea that he's a werewolf. Really classic fairy tale shit yknow.
> 
> anyway yes i highly doubt anyone not from Twitter is gonna read this so,

The pain awoke him that morning. Dull nails _pressing_ into his body and leaving invisible bruises when his eyes opened and he reached for the blankets as if to catch the imps that must be _hammering_ away at his joints while he slept. The _aching_ started almost as soon as he awoke and would not cease no matter the position he laid in, the relaxation his muscle begged for unable to come as all sensation against his skin _burned_ and _stung_. Nothing was soft enough, even the silk sheets _grated_ against his nerves like _thorns_. His arms would not cease the _throbbing_ inside him, like his blood had been replaced by _hornets_ , angry to be released from their prison.

Charles had barely managed to get to his feet he was so weak, and as he reached for the cane by the bedside table to assist him, his sandbag fingers fumbled against the silver wolf head and both he and the cane toppled to the floor. The rugs upon the hard floor did nothing to ease his fall and it felt like his knees were being _split_ _open_.

But it was not time for that.

Soon his bedchamber was filled with his doctors and his grooms, all doing their best to ease the pain somehow. He had felt the _buzz_ of _panic_ coming off them in waves when he had been found struggling to stand. He _despised_ that sound, the static of _worry_ that filled his ears whenever anyone saw him brought so low and he had roughly pushed away anything helping hands, _dragging_ himself to his feet with assistance only from the bedside table.

A groom was there to blot the sweat from his brow now, as he lay prone in bed, hands curled weakly in the thick blankets. His bones felt like they were slowly _cracking_ like logs in a fire and his joints were _stiff_ as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. He could practically hear them _creak_ with every movement like new boots. Even his _teeth_ and _hair_ ached today, and the only solace Charles could find seemed to be the knowledge that tomorrow or the day after he would wake up well rested and without _pain_. It had always come in cycles, since he was a boy, the _pain_ and then the _relief_. He would feel himself close to _death_ with the hurt inside (that would come tonight when the moon was high he was sure) and it would be so intense that he would _blackout_ , alone and safe in his chambers. But by the morrow, the only reminder of that pain would be a stiff neck and a few strange bruises, leaving his body, his mind, and his mood _rejuvenated_. He would feel like a new man, able to do anything in the world. Once he had even led his army to a _victory_ on one such morning. He would be able to _walk_ unassisted and ride again. He would be able to enjoy himself and the people around him, he would _eat_ without feeling sick and _sleep_ peacefully. He would feel like a man of _30_ might be meant to feel.

But it would last. Soon the good feeling would _dwindle_ , and he would be left _aching_ again. His nightly hours would be plagued by _tossing_ and _turning_ and the morning stiffness in his hands would grow until he could _barely_ hold a goblet.

He would be right back to this place, unable to _dress_ , to rise from _bed_ , to fulfill any _duties_ his title might require of him. He had tried a few times, after he had been made king, to attend Court duties in this state and it had always ended _poorly_. It was better to take the _pain_ alone in bed.

He swallowed around the _stiffness_ in his throat, his eyes fluttering open as _heat_ crept up his body, flushing his cheeks and making him restless.

“Hot… it’s too _hot_.” He whispered, looking around at the doctors he employed uselessly puttering around the room, making poultices and tonics Charles knew wouldn’t work. The only thing they seem good for was rubbing his hands.

They seemed to have not heard what he said, and a strange _anger_ rose up in Charles. His emotions were usually too close to the surface when he was this bad, and it only took the drop of a pin to set off his temper.

“It’s too _hot_!” He shouted, picking the cold rag off his head and _throwing_ it across the room with surprising force. He tugged on the collar of his night shirt as the doctors thrust themselves into a flurry to open the glass doors that lead onto the balcony, letting in the cold air, offering a tiny amount of respite. Charles was sure he would _die_ if he had to suffer like this in hot weather.

“Why is it so _hot_?” He demanded, heat only ever helping his symptoms when easing the _sore_ muscles in his legs during a bath. He _struggled_ out from under the piles of blankets and fur on top of him, setting his _burning_ feet on the cold ground as one of his doctors rushed to help him to walk to the doors.

“We thought the heat might help you sweat out the sickness, like a fever.” He replied hesitantly as Charles sagged against him before he helped the King into a chair by the doors, positioned for him to rest his face against the glass windows running alongside the doors.

“Well,” Charles snapped, “this isn’t a _fever_ , is it?” He glared, leaning against the cold glass, sighing with relief at the sensation against his heated skin, breath fogging the pane. “It’s not a fever,” he whispered, shifting to press his forehead to the window. “It’s not a fever, its never been a fever,the fever is just a symptom of this.” He shook his head and shut his eyes, resting against the window for a moment, hands curled around the arms of the chair. Lifting his head again, he looked over the room, filled with people. _Warm bodies_ and _rushing blo_ od that _crowded_ in on his _thoughts_ and his _territory_ , offering no help other then to make him _sweat_.

“Get _out_! Everyone, _out_.” His voice was strangely soft, gentle, before his shook his head and that _anger_ was back and he was bellowing,

“GET _OUT_! _OUT_! _Out_ of my sight!” He actually stood and threw his hands toward the door, gaze fierce and bright as the men scrambled to leave, only relaxing again when the door shut finally, and blissful silence filled the room. Charles limped to that door and latched the lock, making sure he would not be disturbed as a wave of pain _wracked_ through his body, making him cry out.

It started the same, every month, a _dizzy_ sort of pounding in his head, an _ache_ under each rib so that every breath _seared_ his lungs and as he _pulled_ at his hair. His nails were always next, starting to _bruise_ and _bleed_ around the cuticles before _falling off,_ leaving his fingers _blood stumps_ that left smears on the porcelain basin as he leaned over its contents, _shaking_ when another shock of pain when through his left leg. The white nightshirt slowly became _soiled_ with _sweat_ and _blood_ and _clumps of his hair_ as he _pulled_ at his skin through the fabric, useless nails trying to _rip_ his own flesh from his bones. He leaned over the basin again when blood _drooled_ from his mouth, catching on his beard, his gums beginning to _split_ and _burst_. He reached _shaking_ fingers into his mouth to _pull_ the molars from his jaw, spitting blood and teeth into the basin as he _cried_ , wailing with the pain. Tears _stung_ his eyes and he smeared blood over his throat, the sharp points of his bones starting to _break_ through his _skin_ , _breeching_ the outside world and _cracking_ , _reforming_ , taking shapes his body knew by _heart_ at this point in his life. But the familiarity of it didn’t meant there was no pain. The muscle memory didn’t ease the pain as his skin seemed to _shred_ and hair _sprouted_ , growing long and thick all over his _body_. His heart had to _stop_ and _grow_ , his kidneys and liver doing the same, before _restarting_ , the _screams_ only stopping because his throat had _closed_ , vocal cords _snapped_ and then _retwisting_ , voice choked into _silence_. The pain didn’t stop when he fell to his knees, spine _cracking_ and _twisting_ and _arching_ , fingers starting to _stretch_ and the bones _snapped_ , _claws_ growing from where his fingernails _used to be._ Any teeth left in his mouth were _pushed out_ to be replaced by _fangs_ , tongue _growing_ and _lolling_ inside his mouth.

Finally, as the moonlight spilled into the room and the fire crackled into _embers_ , the great wolf Charles had become lifted itself from the floor, pain finally _gone_. He shook his head and stared up at the moon, ready to _run_ and _chase_ Her across the sky, ready to seek out something to fill the _hollow_ aching in his chest. Blood usually, and _flesh_ , hunting and killing the only thing that seemed to stop the _longing_ the moonlight brought with it.

This is how it happened _every month_. The wolf would _tear_ his way out of the human skin and wander across the hills and forests and towns and farms of the kingdom, leaving being a trail of _flesh_ , _intestines_ and _ripped skin_. He would roll in the snow at this time of year; the dead leaves, mud, or new flowers at others, until the moon began to set and tired paws found their way back to the stone halls of the castle, enormous body _collapsing_ for sleep finally, satisfied for a few more weeks to _slumber_ inside his human chest.

When the King awoke in the easiest of morning light, before everyone else, he moved in a strange trance, almost like sleepwalking, scrubbing his body of the _dried dirt_ and _blood_ left behind before beginning to wipe any traces of the transformation away. _Fingernails_ would be burnt, _teeth_ hidden in a box under the bed, ripped _nightshirt_ and _blood rags_ stowed to be taken out and burned with the other linens from his sick times. Once the room and his body were clean, he climbed back into bed. The sheet would be _soft_ against his bare skin, skin that didn’t _sting_ and _ache_ for once and he would fall asleep again until late into the day.

Some would ask, if they knew, how Charles seemed to not _remember_ the events of a full moon, especially when he himself cleaned up the evidence every morning. It was simple. _Magic_. It was a magic brought on by the pain and the trauma of the events, settling like a _blanket_ over his mind to protect both his human parts and his wolf parts. It was the same magic that protected and hid the memories of his early childhood, of his _Wolf Mother_. The magic did not keep him from feeling the effects of the Wolf inside him, and perhaps someday, if there was someone to help him cope, someone to replace the _longing_ and _love_ the wolf felt for the moon, those memories could be revealed, and his body would live in _harmony_ with the two parts inside of him.


End file.
